The Paramedic and the Vigilante
by KayleeThePete
Summary: Exhausted—and part of him wishing he was ten years younger—Oliver pushed open the door to the small room.    Which was already occupied.    The member of the trio of Starling City vigilantes dubbed by the police and media as "The Hood"—dumb name in his opinion—was standing by the counter, holding a wad of gauze of her left, black leather-clad shoulder, eyes visibly wide behind her


So, after what I know has been a TERRIBLY long dry spell from me with my lack of writing and posting, things have just been busy and tiring in real life, here I finally have a story! This is the first part in a series of one-shots for a new Olicity alt-'verse, **The Paramedic and the Vigilante**. I have no idea how it came to me, literally I woke up one morning with this world and the versions of our beloved characters in my head and I had to write it. I hope you guys like it!

Disclaimer: I own NOTHING, I am not receiving anything in the production of this story, it is purely for fun and entertainment.

Thank you to my beta and wonderful dartie, SassySnow1988! Thank you for all the help, advice, and even for egging me on! ;-) You're the best!

* * *

 **Of Sutures, Spilled Juice, and Sticky Notes**

Tommy was right. Oh, how it _pained_ Oliver to admit that; he _hated_ being wrong—the Army shrink had rambled on and on about that particular "trait" (read: issue)—and hated _admitting_ to it even more—oh, had the quacks ever had a field day with his bucket-load of issues...

Two years ago Oliver Queen's 12-year, decorated career in Army Special Forces ended after 9 months held captive by the enemy resulted in two fused vertebrae, a knee replacement, complete burnout, and a psych diagnosis of PTSD. The Army (and a few other government agencies he would never be able to name because the ops were unlikely to ever be declassified) and the United States of America extended their most heartfelt thanks for his service, operated on and rehabbed him, then gave him an early medical retirement.

Naturally Oliver's one-percenter, semi-absentee parents had been thrilled that that "nonsense" was over; they'd assumed this meant he'd take up his "rightful place" with his father at the family company and among the Starling upper-crust society. They even planned how to spin his "patriotism" into positive PR for the company, as well as responses (read: smoke screening) to questions about his business qualifications—or more accurately the lack-thereof.

Oliver instead had taken his G.I. Bill and become a paramedic—he'd briefly considered also going on to become a fireman so he could work out of the Fire Department, but nixed it due to an...incident in Kandahar that he and his Army buddy and mentor, John Diggle, still didn't talk about to this day, no matter _how_ much the shrinks had prodded them; that was a place neither of them _ever_ wanted to revisit. Oliver had immediately volunteered to work on the worst side of town, the Glades, much to his parents' further dismay, and quickly proved himself as the coolest head and most fearless—his friends called it "reckless" but Oliver preferred "fearless"—which were vital traits in many cases. And since he was rather perpetually single—it had to be some form of the universe getting karmic revenge after his playboy past: him being seemingly unable to have a woman stay with him for longer than a couple of dates now that he'd actually might want that—Oliver often took on extra shifts for coworkers who got sick, whose kids got sick, or who went on vacation with their family—his friends and sister accused him of using work to distract himself and avoid dating, but who could blame him after of the last three women one never called him back after the first date, another stalked him, and the third got shot by said stalker?

Suffice it to say that his workaholism—or avoidance tactics, according to his sister, friends, and his last shrink before he fired him—were the reason behind him now having to do something he hated: conceding to someone else being right.

Oliver had started out working his standard shift, then done a double when Charlie had called in because her daughter, two boys, and life-partner were all sick with the stomach flu; that had then rolled into a triple because of a 20-car pileup. He'd just dropped off their last patient when his oldest friend, Tommy Merlyn, ER surgeon-extraordinaire of Glades Memorial, stole his keys and forced him to go to one of the empty tea treatment rooms to rack-out for a few hours before going home, pointing out that after working for so long he had _no_ business driving home on basically no sleep. When he'd sensed Oliver not quite giving in he went in for the kill: "I'm _not_ going to let you go out there and become car accident victim number 21 for the night."

Rolling his eyes, Oliver reluctantly agreed to stay for at least four hours—negotiated down from the original six—and trudged through the familiar halls to the room his friend had indicated.

The further he got from the ER the quieter the halls became and the activity less frantic; he smiled and greeted the orderlies, nurses, and doctors as he made his way through—he was more or less familiar with everyone who worked there, it was a small, understaffed hospital, so everyone knew each other. Oliver checked in with the desk nurse—a sweet mother of two named Jenny—to let her know that Tommy had ordered him to use the room in her ward, to which she'd laughed and said she'd note it on the board for the room not to be disturbed unless necessary, doctor's orders.

Exhausted—and part of him wishing he was ten years younger—Oliver pushed open the door to the small room.

Which was already occupied.

The member of the trio of Starling City vigilantes dubbed by the police and media as "The Hood"—dumb name in his opinion—was standing by the counter, holding a wad of gauze of her left, black leather-clad shoulder, eyes visibly wide behind her signature hood and mask, even in the dim room, lit mostly by moonlight filtering in through the open window.

Oliver was frozen for but a moment—longer than it normally would be but he _was_ coming off a triple, so he figured he could be cut some slack—before he closed the door and locked it behind him. "Gunshot wound?"

Hoodie—yeah, nevermind, he was _not_ gonna call her _that_ —blinked. "What?"

"Your wound." He gestured to her shoulder. "Is it from a gunshot?"

"Umm...yeah..." It sounded more like a question than an answer.

"Is it a through-n-through?"

Her mouth open and closed a couple of times before saying, "I feel like I should know what that means, but I'm kinda distracted from my bleeding to death and your general, extreme hotness." The dark-haired vigilante's teeth audibly snapped shut and her eyes squeezed tightly closed, embarrassment obvious.

Oliver found himself fighting a grin—where the _hell_ had that come from?! He hadn't found much of _anything_ amusing in _years_ , and this girl managed to amuse him within 60 seconds of meeting her?!—before stepping forward and clarifying, "Is the bullet still in your shoulder?"

"No, no bullet. I mean, there _was_ a bullet, obviously, but it didn't stay in my shoulder, it went right through— Thus...the through-n-through you mentioned. Yeah...it's been a night." Her perfectly straight and perfectly white teeth bit her full, dark fuchsia lower lip.

The fair-haired paramedic had reached her side and pulled the gauze away from her shoulder. All he could see was a bloody hole in the black leather. "We need to get this off." He tossed the used gauze into the medical waste bin before beginning to tug on her long coat.

She complied with his urging, unbuckling her belt then working the leather over her good shoulder with ease, while muttering, "Usually I wait until the third date before I let a guy start taking off my clothes." Her eyes again went comically wide.

This time Oliver could not quell the amused smirk that quirked his lips. "Better track record than I have."

Out of the corner of his eye he could see her mouth hanging open, while she stared at him, he probably felt overly-proud at being able to so shock one of the women who had the scum of the Glades running scared. The coat came off to reveal a, in his opinion, sensibly long sleeve top—who the hell would go fighting knife, gun, and other weapons-wielding criminals in short-sleeves or sleeveless tops?! He tugged at the sleeve. "This too."

"Now we're _really_ getting into third date territory." This time he was pretty sure it was intentional on her part, she seemed to be watching him closely to see how he'd react.

He helped her with the clasps on her top that her wounded shoulder made a struggle. "You can buy me a drink later if it'll make you feel better."

"Oh, it should definitely be the other way around," she quipped back.

When was the last time Oliver had had this much fun bantering with someone? "Really?" Peeling back the leather top revealed a simple black tank, and a ragged gunshot wound, which he closely inspected using his penlight.

"Yep." She sucked in a sharp breath when he gently prodded the edge of the wound, shooting her an apologetic look before returning his attention to the injury. "Actually you should spring for an entire meal. I'm not a cheap date."

"Noted." He moved behind her so that he could take a look at the corresponding wound—notably the entrance wound, some fucking coward had shot her in the _back—_ noting that both would only require a few stitches. "I should be able to close these fairly quickly, and the bullet missed the artery."

She twisted her head at a slightly awkward angle to look at the wounds. "Are you sure? It's bleeding a _lot_."

Oliver just barely managed to suppress a smile, nodding and leading her over to the bed. "I'm sure. If they'd hit an artery, you'd probably already be dead, and definitely would be unconscious." He drew her to a halt before him.

She managed to cock an eyebrow above her mask. "Well, you're a cheerful one."

He smirked. "Always." Then he grasped her around the waist and lifted her to sit on the bed.

"Oh!" the startled sound escaped her on a gasp, her lips parting into a delicious "o" that Oliver forced himself to ignore, along with how perfectly the curve of her waist fit in his hands, and that she smelled of freesias and violets.

Oliver withdrew to wash his hands before turning to the supply cabinets, quickly searching through them until he uncovered the items he was looking for, then set them all on a sterile tray and returned to her side, pulling on nitrile gloves. "We'll need to clean the wound first which isn't going to be pleasant."

The masked woman visibly swallowed. "I can take it." She was trying to sound tough, but Oliver could hear the tiniest quaver in her tone. The front wasn't necessary in his book, he already applauded the strength and bravery she'd shown thus far and did so every night on the streets.

He cleaned the wound as best he could, pretending he didn't hear the occasional gasps and whimpers that escaped her. Finally it was satisfactorily clean and, picking up the suture, he turned his gaze on her again, this time _very_ apologetic. "I'm sorry, but they don't keep any anesthetic, even local, in the rooms. So this is going to hurt a lot."

Swallowing hard, the dark-haired woman tried to give a nonchalant shrug, spoiling the effect with a full-body flinch and grimace at moving her injured shoulder, saying, "It can't hurt worse than the bullet did, right?"

Technically, no, a gunshot was more painful, however the stitches were going to take time so the pain would be more sustained. But Oliver wasn't going to tell her that. "Just keep breathing. Don't want you to pass out."

"You suck at this bedside mannnnnnnnnneeeeeeeeeer—Ow ow ow owowowowow OW!"

He cast her an apologetic look from where he'd begun the stitches. "Well, there is a reason I'm a paramedic and not a doctor or nurse."

"Do paramedics even _do_ stitches? I mean, are you even _trained_ to do this?!" Her voice was becoming higher pitched and edging towards hysterical.

Oliver needed to head off that hysteria. "As a matter of fact I have been trained in sutures and have quite a bit of experience with them. I was Special Forces and trained in some field medicine." He kept his voice calm and soothing, his tone turning a little teasing as he continued, "And are you _really_ gonna complain about the qualifications of the man helping you, no-questions-asked, Hoodie?" The name he'd thought of earlier popping back into his mind.

" _What_ did you just call me?" she gritted out through her clenched in pain teeth.

Bingo. "Well, it's better than 'The Hood,'" he used a mock foreboding tone on the moniker as he moved to her back. "Dumb name, 'The Hood.' You should get a better one, Hoodie." Keeping her mad was good, anger kept hysteria away and would help keep her from passing out.

"Call me Hoodie again and I'll kill you," the dark-haired woman snarled. She kinda reminded Oliver of a feisty, little kitten, he liked her spirit; she and Thea would get along famously...he should probably make sure they never met. For many, many reasons.

"Considering I can bench press you, I think I'm okay with taking my chances, Hoodie." Most people would think he had a death wish, taunting one of the Starling City vigilantes, but after all he'd been through and done his fear threshold was set rather high, not much of anything fazed him at this point. And besides, even if she really _could_ kill him he didn't think she actually _would_...probably. At least not until after he'd finished patching her up first. And besides he was growing fond of the nickname Hoodie.

"Then I'll ruin your life! You have _no_ idea what these fingers can do!"

He raised an eyebrow at her, lips twitching. "No, I don't, but I'm sure I'd like to find out, Hoodie."

She frowned for a moment, thinking back on what she'd said before squeezing her eyes shut and groaning. "With a computer! Not...other stuff. Not that I'm _not_ good at that other stuff, I mean, my last boyfriend said—" She clenched her jaw shut and then began counting down through her teeth," 3... 2... 1..."

"Done." Oliver snipped off the excess from the last suture.

Her head whipped around to look where he'd been sewing up the hole in the back of her shoulder. "You're done? Already?"

"Yep." He picked up a couple of large bandages, gently applying them over the stitches on each side of her shoulder, ignoring—or trying to—how soft her skin was under his fingers, even through the gloves, as he smoothed the adhesive edges down.

The vigilante narrowed her eyes at him. "Nice distraction technique."

"Worked in the field." Oliver gathered up everything and tossed it along with his gloves into the med waste bin. "Though I did nearly get my ass kicked once. ASA guy, my partner literally had to tie the guy's hands together behind his back. Still got socked in the jaw afterwards." He picked up her discarded top and gently began to help her pull the sleeve up her injured arm. "So, you're gonna want to keep those sutures as dry as possible, and try not to use that shoulder much, you _do_ have a hole in it so it's gonna need some time to heal and recover, and you don't want to tear the stitches out either. You have someone who can take them out for you in a couple weeks?"

"Yeah, my partners can help me." She fumbled a bit with the fasteners on her top, so Oliver reached over and began to help her with them again. "I'm a big girl, I can dress myself, thanks," she grumbled a bit.

"Seemed to me that you needed a little help. And my mother raised me to be a gentleman and to help a lady when she needed it," he drawled sardonically, before gripping her waist and lifting her down from the bed.

"Yeah, I'll bet. Especially when it involves helping a lady out of her clothes? And why is it you keep picking me up and moving me places? I'm not a doll, I am perfectly capable of moving myself, thanks," she snarked back.

He snorted at her comment about him helping women out of their clothes. "Humor the man who just put the stitches into your shoulder and would rather not see them get ripped out immediately thereafter," Oliver wryly asked her, holding out her coat to help her slip it on.

Rolling her eyes, she allowed him to assist her, pointing out over her shoulder, "You realize that when I climb out the window and down the fire escape that's gonna be substantially more strenuous than hopping off a bed?"

"Thus why you're _not_ going out the fire escape," he easily countered her, already moving towards the door.

Her eyebrows shot towards her hairline. "Is that so?"

"Yep." Oliver cracked the door, checking the hallway.

"And exactly how _am_ I going to get out of here unseen?" Out of the corner of his eyes he saw her start to cross her arms, but then wince and let them drop back to her sides.

"The cameras are out on this floor, and just two doors down there's a stairwell that has an exit into the alley behind the hospital." The paramedic looked back at her. " _That's_ how you're going to get out."

She blinked a couple of times, before joining him. "Well, if you want to be all logical and safe about it."

He smirked. "That'd be my preference." Quickly he scanned the hall, making sure it was clear. "Okay, let's go." Placing his hand at the small of her back, he urged her out of the room and down the hall, head on a swivel, ready to duck out of sight if someone came. They then reached the door to the stairwell and he held it open for her. "Down these stairs you'll find the exit, the one for the alley is the one without a window. Can you get yourself to safety from there?"

"Yeah." She nodded, eyeing him closely. "Why are you helping me? I'm wanted by the police, and you, y'know, work _with_ the police."

Oliver was acutely aware of the hall at his back and that someone could appear at any moment and find them, but he considered his words carefully before answering, "The Glades need help. And you and your friends are among the only people actually _trying_ to make a difference. Trying to do good. And you are." He heard the sound of faint footsteps approaching. "Go, and be careful."

"Thank you!" she managed to say just before the door closed.

Oliver nodded in acknowledgement through the tiny window, before forcing himself to turn and head down the hall back to the room, not wanting anyone to see him at the stairwell and it get back to Tommy that he attempted to "escape" or something. He nodded and smiled tiredly to the nurse he passed in the hall before ducking back into the room; he did a quick visual sweep to make sure there wasn't any evidence left that Hoodie—she'd probably _would_ kill him if she knew that he now thought of her as that—had been there, but aside from the blankets on the bed being slightly wrinkled, which wasn't an issue, everything looked perfectly normal.

As he breathed out a relieved sigh a new wave of exhaustion washed over him, his body screaming abuse at him, and the sigh turned into a grumble. Locking the door again—he did not need anyone getting in the room unexpectedly if his mind decided to revisit one of his nightmares; the last time someone had surprised him while he was having a nightmare he'd nearly killed his mother—Oliver moved to the bed, toeing out of his shoes before basically collapsing face first onto the cheap crappy mattress, though his sleep-deprived body thought it felt like the most amazing bed ever at the moment. Finally he gave into his exhaustion, his mind slowly sinking down into sleep, the scent of freesias and violets drifting from the blankets and following him pleasantly into his dreams.

* * *

 **One Week Later**

Felicity gritted her teeth as her shoulder throbbed beneath her pink blouse, the asshole she'd passed on the way to her desk had slammed into it, not even bothering to apologize. Jerk. She forced herself not to rub it, as was her first instinct, knowing it would do more harm than good. Sara had assured Felicity that the person who patched her up did a great job. When her bo-staff wielding compatriot asked who it was that'd helped her, Felicity had told her that he hadn't given his name. Not a lie, because he _hadn't_ , but who in Starling City _didn't_ know Oliver Queen? All these days later and Felicity still didn't know why she hadn't told Sara who it was that'd helped her.

Unconsciously her fingers rose to lightly rest on the stitches, remembering his gentle touch as he bantered with and teased her, amusement shining through the shadows in his bright blue eyes. Felicity honestly hadn't ever expected to meet the heir to the Queen empire, so she hadn't really had any set expectations as to what he'd be like. At least she'd _thought_ she hadn't, but when she met him he'd surprised her at every turn. The second she'd thought she had a handle on who he was and how he'd react, he'd done something she completely didn't expect. He'd completely and _utterly_ shed the playboy persona of his teen years, his serving in the Army for over a decade alone proved that, and he had a sardonic, self-deprecating sense of humor she wouldn't have predicted. Above all, she'd learnt that Oliver Queen cared, _deeply_. He could have just taken the easy path offered to him by following his parents' plans for him, but instead he chose to enlist in the Army, where he'd volunteered for the truly dangerous jobs, while also lending a helping hand where he could—she may or may not have hacked his file, and while some of it was too heavily protected for her to risk attracting attention by digging any deeper, what she had been able to find told her a great deal about the kind of person he was.

After the hell of his captivity—even just _reading_ the debrief of what had happened to him and his fellow soldier, John Diggle, and the resulting injuries had Felicity cringing in her seat—no one would have faulted him for choosing the easier life his family wanted for him, but instead he'd chosen a profession that was dedicated to helping others and to do so in the roughest part of town and that was most in need. Oliver had a _big_ heart, possibly the biggest Felicity had ever encountered, one, she was beginning to suspect that even from their brief encounter, he hid under sarcasm and a façade of professional distance—that, and him trying to keep her calm while doing his job, had _better_ be the reason why he called her freaking _Hoodie_. Whatever else Oliver Queen might be, he was definitely a good man.

"Felicity Smoak?"

And " _he_ " was apparently standing in front of her cubicle.

 _Frack_.

Felicity had automatically looked up at her name being called, and if there ever was a "speak of the devil" moment, this was it. But what a handsome devil he was... Frack, her brain.

He gave her a charming, but distant, smile. "Hi, I'm Oliver Queen."

Yes, yes, he was. In all his muscle-ly, perfectly scruffy glory; his forearms strained against the rolled up sleeves of his blue plaid shirt, and his jeans clung _very_ nicely to his strong thighs—and probably perfectly formed to his unbelievable ass.

Felicity didn't realize she'd been staring until he cleared his throat, startling her out of her stupor. Gods of Google she hoped that for once she'd managed to _not_ babble all of that.

The smirk on Oliver's face and the amusement dancing in his eyes put a damper on that hope.

"I'll take all of that as a compliment."

And now it was DOA. _Double frack._

Blushing furiously, Felicity pushed her glasses up her nose and cleared her throat. "Mr. Queen, please accept my apologies for those utterly inappropriate statements—"

"Oliver," he easily cut in.

"What?" She blinked up at him from behind her square frames.

"It's Oliver. Mr. Queen is my father."

"Of course he is. Because he's my boss and that's his name. But it's your name too, and it's on the side of the building—" Felicity forcefully snapped her jaw shut, trying to keep herself from digging an even deeper hole.

He shifted on his feet, for the first time in their short acquaintance actually looking uncomfortable. Felicity noticed the fingers of his right hand were rubbing together rapidly, her mind for some reason taking note of the tiny gesture. "Still, I'd rather you call me Oliver." There was nothing flirtatious about his tone, in fact it was rather flat and firm.

This was important to him; she didn't really understand why—yet—but it was obviously something he felt _very_ strongly about, and Felicity would respect his wishes on this. Slowly, she nodded. "Okay, Oliver, what can I do for you?"

Gratitude washed over his face—Felicity pretended not to feel the warmth that flooded her heart at the expression—before a somewhat sheepish look overtook it. He lifted up a laptop he'd been carrying at his side and set it on her desk.

When Felicity placed her fingers on it she immediately noted a sticky substance coating it; she pulled her hands back with a grimace. "What happened to this…" she eyed the computer, noting how it was _several_ generations old, "poor dinosaur?"

"Hey!" He jabbed a finger at her, a teasing note threading his offended tone. "That _dinosaur_ has served me well! Survived multiple deployments."

"And it should have been enjoying a nice honorable discharge to the back of your closet, not whatever travesty has befallen it instead," she countered, matching the teasing in his tone as she reprimanded him.

Bashfully ducking his head and stuffing his hands in his pockets, Oliver shrugged. "I kept meaning to get a new computer, but it ran fine so I just put it off."

She cocked an eyebrow. "So, what happened to Dino?"

He slowly raised his gaze to hers. "I was watching my goddaughter and apparently sippy cups aren't as leak-proof as they make them out to be…"

"Or maybe there was a user error? And by that, I mean you, not the child."

Grinning wryly, he shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time. They call these things kid-friendly and then make them impossible to operate. It took me three hours to put her swing _thing_ ," he made some odd gestures with his arms, apparently supposed to describe the object—and Felicity found it _far_ too adorable, "birthday present together last month."

She ducked her head to try to hide her twitching lips. He probably didn't realize just how much the simple statement said about him. Good gods of Google, it truly was unfair for a man _that_ good-looking to be so sweet and actually kinda…adorkable…

Felicity quickly shook her head, trying to get rid of those thoughts. "So, What exactly can I do for you? Because I'm pretty sure not even _I_ can help this poor unfortunate soul."

"Well, as long as the it doesn't cost my voice, I was hoping you could get the files off the hard drive," he teased back.

She felt her eyebrows shoot up.

At her surprise, Oliver shrugged. " _The Little Mermaid_ was my kid sister's favorite growing up, and now Sara, my goddaughter, likes to watch it every time she comes over to my place."

Frack. How the _hell_ did this guy just keep getting more and more attractive?! _He's your boss. He's your boss._ She tried to keep the mantra up, but a unhelpful corner of her mind slyly threw in, _He's your boss...sorta. Not really..._ _He doesn't work here at all, he's just the son of—_ Shut up! Great, and now she was having arguments with her own brain. Felicity shook all that away before turning back to Oliver with a smile. "Let me take a look at it and see what I can do."

Oliver smiled. Gods of Google help her, he _really_ smiled. It was brilliant, it lit his too-old eyes in such a breathtaking way, brighter than she'd seen them either in the media or in person. "Thank you, Felicity."

She'd never heard someone say her name like that, lingering over each of the syllables, as if savoring them. Frack, this man was _unreal_.

He snagged one of her sticky note pads, the green one, and picked up her red pen, scribbling quickly. "Here's my number, just call me when you're done." He grinned at her again, handing her the pad and pen back.

"Of course!" Felicity pushed her glasses up her nose with her free hand. "It should only take a couple of days."

"No rush," he assured her as he stuck his hands in his pockets. An oddly knowing glint entered his eyes, a smirk touching his lips. "See you around, Felicity."

"See you." She watched him until he turned the corner out of the IT Department, then shook her head to banish the very appealing images of Oliver Queen. She finally looked down at his note, preparing to pull it from the pad and stick it by her screen, but froze, eyes going wide as she actually read what he'd written below his phone number:

 _Just in case you need some more medical assistance, Hoodie._

Her first thought was: _I'm gonna kill him for calling me Hoodie!_

Her second thought was: _Fuck_.

* * *

So, I will definitely be doing more in this 'verse, I'm having TONS of fun with these versions of Oliver and Felicity! XD

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think and if you want to see more from this AU!


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